


Burn My Heart

by Iolre



Series: Burn My Heart [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fire, Greg is sentimental, Hurt/Comfort, John is sassy, M/M, Near-Death Experience, Sherlock is overprotective, Sherstrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2018-01-01 22:24:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade is forced to face his fears when he discovers he has no way out. Weeks later, Sherlock takes him home from the hospital and shows him that he cares in the most obnoxious way possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: Moriarty knows how to burn Sherlock's heart /effectively/ once he found out the heart is the DI, not the doctor. May involve literal burning. [Rescue H/C that follows optional although would be welcome :3]
> 
> You can send me more prompts for minor pairings [here!](http://minorsherlockprompts.tumblr.com)

Greg came to in the middle of a room. His hand went to his head, grimacing at the size of the lump that was forming. There was blood on the tips of his fingers when he pulled his hand away. He tried to stand, tried to move, and quickly sat back down when the world started to spin. The last thing he could remember was entering a house, it was a case, one Sherlock had refused and they had gotten a tip that their murder suspect was hiding out. How had he ended up knocked out? Where was he?

That was when he smelled it, the acrid smell of smoke. He moved his head as quickly as he was able, searching for a door, an exit - anything. There was a door to his right, about three metres away. As he shuffled over, on his hands and knees, he went slowly, cautiously. Every jarring motion sent his head spinning and his stomach twisted into knots. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so close to vomiting.

It took far longer than he would have liked to reach what he hoped was the exit. Carefully he snuck a hand up to the door, feeling it with his palm. It was cool to the touch. He coughed, surprised to see flames licking at the wall, at another exit that had been behind him, and smoke was quickly filling up the room. It took a few tries, but he turned the knob and pulled.

The door didn’t move.

Greg tried again and again, wheezing more frequently as he attempted to put more force into yanking the door open. Nothing worked. He sank to the floor, fighting to stay conscious, even when his mind swam. Smoke inhalation, combined with a probable concussion. His hand slid off the knob, slid down the side of the door, and Greg felt the heads of nails embedded in the wood. Someone had nailed the door shut. He had no way out.

He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Ripping off the hem of his shirt, he wrapped it around his nose and mouth, trying to stave off any more lung damage from inhaling the smoke. His eyes swept what he could see of the room. Two doors. One with smoke rolling out from underneath it, flames sneaking closer, underneath the door. The other nailed shut. There were no windows he could see. Nothing he could escape from, even without a fuzzy head. His mobile? Greg dug a questioning hand into his pockets, searching, scrambling. He came up empty. Bloody thing. He was forever forgetting it in his office, or in his car.

He leaned against the door, as far away from the smoke and flames as he was able to get. Greg shoved his hand in his pocket, and pulled out a well-worn photo. He pulled his knees up to his chest, as best he could, and just looked. It was him smiling next to a grumpy Sherlock. One of the few photos he had gotten the consulting detective to agree to, especially since they had become a couple, only a few months prior. Sherlock hated cameras, which was an amusing contradiction in such a vain man.

Greg pressed a shaky kiss to the man in the photograph, smoothing away the droplets of his tears from the photo paper. At least Sherlock wouldn’t be completely alone, he told himself. A man named John Watson had just moved in. Had shot a cabbie, just for Sherlock. At least the nutter would be protected. He’d be looked after. John could take care of Sherlock, make sure that he didn’t let himself go in the wake of Greg’s death.

It was a small consolation, but Greg knew it was better than nothing. The flames were closer now. Greg could see some of them, burning the bottom of the door, a faint spark through the thick haze of smoke. He kissed the photograph again, one last time. He wouldn’t get to see Sherlock again, wouldn’t get to say goodbye.

The last thing he heard before he lost consciousness was the sound of breaking glass.

-

“He should be in a hospital.”

“John’s right, Sherlock.”

“John’s a doctor. He can take better care of you than that hospital full of incompetent fools.”

Greg rolled his eyes as Sherlock carefully maneuvered the wheelchair to the lift, glaring fiercely at anyone who dared attempt to touch the handles. Not that he wasn’t enjoying Sherlock’s newfound possessiveness, but it meant that Sherlock hadn’t left his side for weeks now. Greg didn’t remember much of the first week, after Sherlock had rescued him. He had spent much of the time intubated and sedated, the doctors trying to allow time for his burnt lungs to heal.

Once they made it outside, John flagged down a taxi and Sherlock helped Greg inside. “221B Baker Street,” Sherlock said curtly before Greg could give the cabbie his home address.

“Sherlock,” Greg said reproachfully.

“John will supervise your medical care at my flat,” Sherlock replied, a hand on Greg’s thigh and his gaze focusing on the buildings passing them.

Greg sighed his disagreement, but couldn’t help the way he leaned into Sherlock’s touch, the way his head tilted to the side and onto Sherlock’s shoulder as if seeking comfort. He refused to look at John, sat on his other side, but if he had been able to bet, he would have guessed John was smiling. John was new to Sherlock’s life, yes, but he was learning. “Greg can’t sleep on the sofa, Sherlock,” John said, rather reasonably.

“He won’t.” Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, although he was careful to not dislodge Greg’s head on his shoulder. “He can use my bed.”

“Without you in it, I hope.” John lifted an eyebrow. Sherlock smirked and said nothing. Greg rolled his eyes, hoping if he did it loudly enough Sherlock would hear and behave. “Because I’d hate to come in and have to give Greg his nebulizer treatment in the middle of you two having sex.”

“I’m certain you would be professional in the case of that occurrence.”

John choked back whatever he was going to say, and it sounded an awful lot like laughter. Greg was pleased when they arrived at 221B before either man was able to form a retort. “I’m recovering, not deaf,” he muttered as Sherlock helped him out of the taxi.

“Pay the driver, John, I’m busy.” Sherlock walked Greg to the front door, carefully inserting the key before guiding Greg upstairs. Greg could hear John muttering to himself, and moments later heard him stomping up the stairs behind him.

“Pay the driver, John,” Greg heard John mutter. “Fetch the milk. Don’t move the petri dishes.” John snorted, following them into 221B. “Give my partner medical attention during sex.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Greg called back. “Not deaf.”

Mrs. Hudson bustled up the stairs and immediately into the kitchen. Sherlock walked Greg to the sofa, where Greg sat. It was odd, the way Sherlock was handling him, like he was a carton full of easily-broken eggs. While he appreciated it, the treatment also made him feel old and doddering. Regardless, he watched Sherlock as he followed Mrs. Hudson into the kitchen. Greg offered Sherlock a smile as he came out bearing mugs of tea. Sherlock settled in his armchair, able to see Greg over his mug.

“It’s a lot less creepy if you’re not staring at me, love,” Greg pointed out, watching Sherlock with a fond warmth in his eyes.

“I’m watching you, not staring,” Sherlock replied absently. “John, he needs his medication.”

Even Greg could hear John rolling his eyes, and he shifted, setting down the tea and struggling to his feet. In a flash Sherlock was next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, supporting. “I can walk, you know,” Greg breathed, aware he sounded hoarse, out of breath already. The smoke had done so much damage to his lungs that he was quickly rendered short of breath, with very little stamina. It would be quite some time before he would be able to run long distances again. He dreaded to think exactly how long that meant he would be on desk duty. “And get my own tablets. John, don’t move.”

“John’s a doctor,” Sherlock argued, reluctantly walking with Greg over to the table where his medications were lying.

“Yes, and if you don’t stop hovering like a mother hen, I’m going to ask him for the best way to smother you in your sleep,” Greg muttered. Sherlock drew himself up as if offended, and Greg leaned in and gently kissed his cheek. “Really, love. I’m not that fragile anymore.” The way Sherlock’s hand cupped his face and gently smoothed a thumb over Greg’s cheek made something lurch in his stomach, something he didn’t really want to pay attention to until they had less of an audience.

“One of the meds is going to make you tired,” John informed Greg as he placed the tablets in his mouth and swallowed them with the rest of his tea.

“That means get me to bed,” Greg added, setting down the empty mug. He coughed, grimacing at the burning in his lungs. It would be months, if ever, before the cough would be completely gone, or his voice would be back to normal.

Greg was rather grateful that Sherlock didn’t sweep him up like a fair maiden, for he wasn’t sure that his ego could have handled such an event. As it was, John was already fighting giggles at the way Sherlock bolted to the kitchen and practically manhandled Greg towards the bedroom. Sometime he would have to talk to Sherlock about how being an invalid didn’t equal being incompetent. Then again, he mused, Sherlock already viewed the majority of the world as incompetent, so Greg wasn’t really sure if Sherlock would appreciate the distinction as it was.

Sherlock undressed him with quick, deft fingers, leaving Greg standing near Sherlock’s (oddly) clean bed dressed in solely his pants. “Well,” Greg said, looking from Sherlock’s intent face to the bed.

“I thought you said you weren’t an invalid. Do you need help, perhaps in lifting the duvet?”

Greg opened his mouth to make a sharp retort (probably to tell Sherlock he needed to work on his sarcasm), but stopped short when he saw the distress lurking underneath Sherlock’s normal facade. Carefully he walked to the bed, crawling underneath the duvet and curling up on his side. He could hear Sherlock thinking, trying to figure out whether or not it was an invitation. Soon he heard the soft thumps as Sherlock undressed, felt the dip of the bed as Sherlock crawled in behind him, pressing his bare chest to Greg’s back.

“Hello,” Greg murmured. He could feel a hint of the drowsiness he had come to expect with the sleep medication they had put him on tugging at the edges of his consciousness. He didn’t have long, probably no more than ten or fifteen minutes. Slowly Greg turned around, so he could see Sherlock’s face.

“I’m not going to take advantage of you, if that is what you are concerned about,” Sherlock said, sounding rather put out by the thought.

Greg chuckled, kissing Sherlock carefully on the lips. “Are you okay?”

“That’s a ridiculous question,” Sherlock snapped. Greg lifted a hand, cupping Sherlock’s face, stroking with his thumb.

“It’s really not,” he said softly. “You haven’t left me since - since you rescued me. That’s what John mentioned the last time you slept, at least. You’re constantly under my feet.” Greg could feel Sherlock tensing against him, and his face was changing, turning guarded. His heart melted for his partner. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Sherlock.”

“I almost lost you.” Sherlock’s eyes were averted, as if he couldn’t bare to meet Greg’s gaze. He sounded puzzled by the statement, as if it wasn’t a confession he had intended to make.

Greg was slowly losing the battle to the sleep meds, now that they had taken a firmer root in his mind. “I’m still here.”

He felt Sherlock gather him in his arms, moving tentatively, as if Greg was fragile glass. “I’m never letting you go again.”

Great, Greg thought fuzzily. Sherlock was going to be harder to get rid of than ever. He watched Sherlock’s face, watched the consulting detective fight to keep his eyes open. “John,” Greg breathed.

“It seems that he drugged me, yes.” Sherlock kissed Greg shyly, cautiously, and then checked to make sure his breathing was okay.

“Good night,” Greg murmured, wrapping an arm over Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock hummed his agreement just before Greg fell asleep.


End file.
